


This Isn't Rapture

by moistdrippings



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #JustFuckMeUp, ...obviously, Anal Sex, Enemas, Established Relationship, Fever, Fever sex, Humiliation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Sounding, references to cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 13:57:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7174586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moistdrippings/pseuds/moistdrippings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will wakes with a fever, and Hannibal prescribes some unconventional treatments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Isn't Rapture

**Author's Note:**

> Please see the end notes for detailed warnings.
> 
> This was written for Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive's JustFuckMeUp challenge. Unfortunately I am a little late. :/ Normally, fever sex, enemas, sounding, and even established relationships are things I have no inclination to write or seek out for themselves, but now... I kind of get the appeal. And hopefully that came across.
> 
> Thank you to my friends and betas, who withstood my madness and helped this get to a point where it was shareable, in spite of my constant struggles.

The fever came on about as quickly as normal fevers tend to: one night Will felt only a little more cold and tired than usual, and retired to bed just a little early, and then he found himself stumbling through the dark to the bathroom, barely able to push up the toilet seat before he was retching up the goulash he'd so carefully savored only hours before.

He didn't regret flushing the remains of the snide and abusive maître d' along with his bile, but he found himself simultaneously mourning the warm, rich meal and wishing desperately he'd eaten something lighter and easier for his digestive system to move.

He was shuddering through a final, mostly dry round of heaving when he felt large, warm fingers wend their way through his hair from nape to crown. Will could feel the sweat and oils gathering at his roots, and shivered as he abruptly went from overheated to clammy and feeling layered in filth.

Hannibal helped him stand and move to the sink, where he rinsed out his mouth with his head bent under the tap. Hannibal passed him his toothbrush a moment later, and he took it reluctantly, unsure if he could handle anything even approaching his throat at the moment. He fought against a cringe at the thought, his eyes sliding over to Hannibal, who had on the version of his "normal human" disguise that seemed to come almost naturally whenever he tended to anyone medically, Will included.

Will had hated it when they had been recovering from their tumble into the sea, and he hated it no less now, even as he wondered if he could handle any other side of Hannibal in the state he was in.

He spat into the sink, and despite the toothpaste's lingering mint flavor, his mouth still felt hot and raw when he spoke. "I haven't had a fever like this in years."

"It's not your brain," Hannibal said immediately. He was rifling through the cabinet by the shower. "I would have noticed the symptoms of an encephalitis relapse before now."

"I didn't say I thought it was encephalitis," Will replied, feeling both defensive and shaken at Hannibal giving voice to his worst fears — again. "I'm not sleepwalking or hallucinating."

Hannibal said nothing, which was about what Will felt he should have expected. He rose out of the cabinet with something that looked almost like a hot water bottle in one hand, a hose and a few smaller contraptions in the other.

"Oh, hell." Will knew what that was. He had found it among their shared things ages ago, when they were still moving through the house tentatively, learning how to cross each other's boundaries all over again. He had made an effort not to look at it since.

"Have you had a bowel movement today?" Hannibal asked.

Will felt his cheeks go hot, the only warmth he could feel at all. When Hannibal turned to look at him, he nodded, feeling shaky and hollow. He felt like he should refuse, should drag himself back to bed on his own, but he just didn't have the energy.

"Undress." Hannibal left the bathroom, and Will stood there a moment, clutching the sink for balance until his knuckles went white. Carefully, he closed the toilet lid and sat down before starting to struggle out of his shirt.

Hannibal returned while he was wrestling off his boxers. They were putting up quite a fight, stuck to the skin of his thighs with cooled sweat. Hannibal put the bag, now filled with water, on the edge of the sink and stooped to help him, his thumbs pressing between Will's sticky skin and the cotton of his underwear, his nails scraping little white lines down the meat of his upper thighs as he went. Will's cock twitched in interest briefly before settling limp against his thigh. He didn't think he had it in him to get hard, even with Hannibal so close to his naked skin.

It was a little disconcerting, actually, being the only one naked in the room; Hannibal was still dressed in his pajamas, not even shirtless. He had drawn Will nude before, but even then he had stripped until his chest was bare, and it hadn't been long until he'd been fully naked, too, sweaty and pressed against Will's body. Will didn't like feeling so exposed while Hannibal was wearing a mask, and so he leaned up and kissed him, quick and chaste, but hopefully enough to chase away the clinical facade.

It was. He leaned back to find Hannibal's expression softer, a microscopic version of a sappy, relaxed smile on his face. "You should get in the tub," he said.

Will frowned, or tried to. He didn't feel entirely in control of his own expressions. "I don't want to do this, Hannibal."

"You'll feel better afterwards."

Just the thought of arguing exhausted Will. As unpleasant as he found the idea of what Hannibal had in store for him, it felt easier to just go along with it. At least then he'd only have to lie there. "How should I lay?"

"However is most comfortable for you. It will be easier if you lay on your left side, with your back to me."

Will hesitated. He didn't like the idea of not being able to see what Hannibal was doing to him.

"Or," Hannibal suggested, "you could put your knees under yourself and raise your backside, with your chest against the floor."

Will pictured it. He had maneuvered Hannibal into similar positions while fucking him before. "How about on my back?"

Hannibal tipped his head. "If you wish."

Will's knees felt shaky as he stepped over the edge of the bathtub. It wasn't the claw-footed monstrosity he had once thought Hannibal would insist on, but it was large, and after Hannibal put a rolled up towel under his neck, it was comfortable enough. Will looked down at his body, pale and spotted with gooseflesh, and tried not to think about what it was going to feel like.

He had never had an enema before.

Hannibal sat on the edge of the tub, the bag and hose in hand, along with the very same bottle of lubricant Will used to open him up. The sight of it made Will swallow thickly.

"I'll do it," he offered, holding out his hand for the bottle.

"You won't." Hannibal looked unfairly amused, gently pushing Will's hand down to rest against his chest. "I've touched you more intimately than this before."

"I hope you're not thinking this is a precursor to anything else," Will said, equally out of a nervous need to say _something_ and because he thought Hannibal might. "I haven't changed my mind about anything."

"Of course not." Hannibal was putting everything together: bag, hose, clamp, nozzle. He still had that tiny little smile on his face as he picked up the lubricant, smearing it over the end of the nozzle and around the tip of his right forefinger. He brought his hand down between Will's legs, prying them gently apart even as Will fought to close them again. "Relax, and lift your legs."

"Don't— don't play around," Will said, even as he brought his knees up toward his chest. He felt a cold shock of humiliation run through his body at the position. He was exposed, a scientific specimen under Hannibal's hungry gaze, waiting to see how he would twitch.

The lubricant didn't feel as cold against Will's sensitive skin as he might have imagined; it was cool, for a moment, but only in comparison to his own fevered body. Hannibal's fingertip ran small circles around his hole, making it wet. It felt obscene — obscene in a way that would have made his cock hard if their positions had been reversed, but which only made him feel small and vulnerable. It was worse still when Hannibal pressed in, just slightly. He coated Will's hole almost clinically, except for the look on his face: too interested, too intent. Will had to avert his eyes, staring up at the ceiling.

He started slightly when Hannibal's free hand wrapped around his wrist, his thumb pushing Will's fingers away from his palm. He hadn't even realized he had been making a fist.

"If you're too tense, this will be unpleasant," Hannibal said, moving to do the same to Will's other hand. His fingertip was still inside Will, though it was unmoving. It felt larger inside of him than Will knew it was.

He let out a long, wavering breath. "Maybe we should stop, then."

Hannibal laid his palm against Will's lower ribs. "Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth."

Will did, focusing on his lungs and the feeling of Hannibal's hand on his chest. It was a sufficient distraction: although he certainly noticed when Hannibal pressed deeper, the discomfort seemed easier to handle, like it was falling away.

And then it was gone, as Hannibal withdrew his finger and his palm. The sensation of emptiness that followed was unfamiliar and surprising. Will lifted his head slightly, watching Hannibal with a wary eye as he held up the bag about a foot, releasing the clamp until a trickle of water came out. It dripped onto Will's right leg for a second before Hannibal closed the clamp again.

"I'm going to insert the nozzle," Hannibal announced, and Will closed his eyes and focused once more on his breathing.

Like the lubricant, the nozzle was warmer than Will had expected. It slipped into his body with almost no discomfort, small and slick in his ass. He breathed out hard.

Hannibal ran his left hand over Will's forehead, smoothing back his hair. Will realized he'd gone hot again, sweating against Hannibal's comparatively cool skin. At least he wasn't shivering.

He could still say no, he realized. He could say no at any time, and crawl back into bed on his own. It just seemed like it would take so much energy. He'd be left with nothing but his own mind to distract him from the aches and worries of his fever, too.

"Are you ready?" Hannibal asked.

Will opened his eyes, just slightly, and nodded. "As ready as I'm going to be."

The water was warmer than the nozzle or lubricant had been, perhaps even a little warmer than Will himself. He'd been braced for cold, for the chill of it to spread through him and out to his fingers and toes until he was shivering all over again. Instead, he relaxed into it almost involuntarily. The sensation was odd, unfamiliar, but not exactly unpleasant.

When his exhales turned nearly into sighs, Hannibal murmured quiet praise, and Will refused to let himself feel embarrassed. He stared down over the planes of his own body to Hannibal's hands. He had his right hand on the bag, suspending it in the air, and his left on the clamp, apparently ready to close it at any moment, though Will wasn't sure what for.

He discovered what it was soon enough, though. A little under two minutes in, his gut seized up with a cramp, and he sucked in a harsh breath. "Stop, stop."

Hannibal did, closing the clamp immediately. In a moment his hands were on Will again, his left rubbing counterclockwise circles on Will's abdomen while his right ran soothingly up and down his leg. "You're doing well," he said, soft and sincere.

Will didn't feel like he was doing well. He felt like he had somehow failed. He could see that the bag was still mostly full, and though he had no personal experience with enemas he was fairly certain they were not typically so quick.

Hannibal gradually pressed harder on his stomach, still rubbing in wide circles. The additional pressure didn't hurt, or didn't hurt enough for Will to notice it beyond the cramping. It felt like he was manipulating Will's innards, molding them like clay until they fit the shape he liked best.

Luckily for Will, that shape relieved his pain, and suddenly he felt like there was space inside his body for full breaths again. His face went slack, his lips parting and his eyes slipping halfway shut.

"Can you take more?" Hannibal asked, though it sounded less like a question and more like an answer: _You can take more_. Will nodded, and Hannibal picked the bag up again, removing his hand from Will's stomach to open the clamp again. This time, though, he put his palm back on Will as soon as the water started flowing and continued pressing firm circles on his abdomen. Will was grateful for it.

It was easier, after that, though not without further hiccups: twice more, Will asked for Hannibal to stop, and trembled his way through clenching pain and Hannibal telling him softly that he was doing _so well_ , that he was _beautiful, taking it all_ like he was _made for it, made to be filled_ and _perfect_. He burned through it, sometimes straight through to his skin and fever-hot, sometimes only at his core, feeling molten inside and icy cold outside.

After those first two times, he tried to soldier through the pain. A whimper escaped him at the next cramp, though, and Hannibal closed the clamp quickly.

"How much is left?" Will asked. There was a cold sweat on his brow, and he didn't know whether it was from his fever or from the enema.

"A little more," Hannibal said.

"I don't think I can take it all. I need to— to get it out. Please."

"Not yet." Hannibal pressed his fingertips into Will's stomach, just briefly, but it was enough to make Will's shoulders jerk, his toes curling against the pain. "You've taken a lot already, but you can take more. Look how swollen you are."

Will's eyes had traveled away from his own stomach and Hannibal's hands, bouncing between looking at Hannibal's face and an unfocused stare at the ceiling. Now he looked back, and groaned at the sight of himself, his stomach visibly distended by the water inside him. It felt obscene and unnatural, like his body shouldn't have been able to stretch so far, though his own biology clearly disagreed. It looked worse, with Hannibal's hand on him, smoothing up over the swell of his digestive tract.

His knee jerked when that hand swept down, stroking over his cock with a loose fist. With a start, Will realized he was half hard. He couldn't look Hannibal in the eye then; the humiliation of it, of gaining any sort of pleasure from what Hannibal was putting him through, was too much to bear without the additional stimulus of Hannibal's satisfaction.

Luckily, Hannibal returned his hand to Will's stomach, rubbing in circles once more. 

"You can take the rest of it," Hannibal said. "You may not want to admit it, but you're enjoying it. You're capable, and your body is eager. Don't deny yourself to spite me."

Will felt his cock twitch. He gulped for air, felt sweat dripping into his eyes, and nodded.

At the first tilt of his head, Hannibal opened the clamp again, opening his mouth with it to pour out more praise. "You're taking it perfectly. You suffer through your pleasure like a martyr, Will. I could watch you squirm like this for hours. Breathe."

Will did, sucking in air through his nose and letting it out in a gasp. "Is there even any medical benefit to this? For this fever?" he asked, his voice shaking with exertion and excitement.

"Strictly speaking, no. Rest, however, is of utmost important to a healing body, and you struggle with it at the best of times. Your face and shoulder might have healed in half the time if you had only been able to let yourself relax."

"So you're taking it upon yourself to force me to relax instead."

"Yes," Hannibal answered. "I prefer you healthy."

"You prefer me at your mercy."

"That, too."

They fell into silence after that, apart from Will's shuddering breath. He had thought he could take no more, but his body opened under Hannibal's hand, accepting the water until none was left.

Hannibal eased the nozzle out of him, setting aside the bag and hose and pushing at the backs of Will's thighs, urging him to tip his hips higher. "Breathe through your mouth only now."

Will felt his chest heave with his breathing. He was cold again, shivering, and the slight change in the angle of his pelvis seemed to send the water sloshing through him, making it difficult all over again to retain it all. "Help me up," he demanded, reaching for Hannibal's arm.

Hannibal pressed him down by his chest instead. "Be patient. You'll need to hold it in for a few minutes."

"I can't." Will felt stuck somewhere between panic and resignation to failure, a hollow place pulled between two points by his fluctuating temperature. "I can't, Hannibal."

"You can. Just a few minutes."

Will breathed through his mouth noisily and closed his eyes. He was trembling, and not just from the fever; his legs and chest felt like they were as ready to burst under the pressure inside of him as his abdomen was, his entire body begging for relief.

But his body could take more than that, he knew. It had taken bullets and blades, had endured being battered and smothered by the ocean. It had withstood _Hannibal_. He could handle a little water.

Hannibal encouraged him to hook his knee over the edge of the tub, keeping his hips tilted just so, and then his own hands were free to explore Will's body. He had done so before, dozens of times, but his focus was usually on Will's scars, his face, and his cock, or on the lines of his muscles and how they strained against him; now he took his hands to Will's belly, running them almost reverently over the swollen curve of it. 

Will expected him to press down, to torment and humiliate him. He didn't. He kept his touch light, skating his fingertips and palms over Will's skin from groin to ribs and from side to side.

"You've changed your shape for me," Hannibal said.

Will supposed that was true. Tentatively, he brushed his own hand down his chest, feeling the suddenly less familiar planes of his own body. His fingers brushed against Hannibal's over his navel, just under his bulging scar. "I didn't have much choice in the matter."

"But you did," Hannibal insisted, covering Will's hand and keeping it there. He wrapped his other hand around Will's half-hard cock again, stroking it teasingly. "You could have rejected what I gave to you. Instead you took it willingly."

Will couldn't help the hitch in his breath. "'Willingly.' Are we still talking about the enema?"

Hannibal didn't answer. He firmed his grip, making Will's toes curl. On each upstroke, he rubbed his thumb under the head of Will's cock. In moments, Will was fully hard.

And then Hannibal let go, turning to step up and away from the bathtub. He held out a hand for Will. "I think you've lasted long enough, now."

Will took his hand, rising cautiously. He felt as though any misstep might make everything spill out of him — and not just the water. Standing felt like a mistake, all the aches of fever returning with full force, accompanied by a minor crick in his back from the unforgiving floor of the bathtub. With difficulty, leaning heavily on Hannibal for balance, he got himself out and let himself be lead back to the toilet.

The sense memory of vomiting was still fresh, and Will's stomach clenched painfully for a second before he fought his bile back down. He was still breathing open-mouthed, and he felt dizzy and helpless as Hannibal turned him and lowered him onto the seat.

Will expected him to leave. He didn't, instead crouching in front of Will, taking his ankles in his hands. "It will help if you raise your knees again," he said, pulling Will's calves up to accomplish just that.

Even beyond his haze, Will could feel the burn of embarrassment, multiplied with the way Hannibal was watching his face, focused and intent. It didn't help, either, that his cock was still mostly erect, hardly having softened at all with the lurching of his stomach and all that Hannibal was putting him through.

"Let go, Will."

Will closed his eyes and opened himself to an intense rush of relief.

* * *

Will braced one hand against the shower wall, leaning half out of the fall of water. He felt wrung out, like he was only held up by the steam gathering around him. Hannibal had taken the enema bag and tubing to clean elsewhere, leaving Will feeling out of balance. At the same time, he was grateful; his humiliation had finally ended, after Hannibal had sat with him for ten minutes, encouraging him and rubbing his abdomen.

He hadn't been wrong, though. Will felt relaxed and tired, nearly ready to fall asleep right in the shower. He leaned further into the wall, supporting himself with his left shoulder.

His cock was still partly hard, fat and waiting against his thigh. It hadn't settled much while he was expelling the enema, even when he could no longer keep eye contact with Hannibal. He thought he would feel something terrible about that later, when he had the energy to care again.

He heard Hannibal enter the bathroom, but couldn't bring himself to turn his head. It seemed like too much effort, as the idea of soaping himself up and rinsing off had seemed like too much effort.

"You didn't close the curtain," Hannibal said, shucking his shirt. His pants followed, and he stepped into the tub again, crowding up beside Will and putting his hands on his sides. "The floor is soaked."

Will groaned. He didn't give a damn about the floor.

Hannibal kissed the back of his neck, pulling him away from the wall and back under the stream of water. He covered Will's eyes with one broad hand, reaching around him for the shampoo. Once he had it, he turned Will toward him and began lathering his hair. "How do you feel?"

"Empty," Will said, almost automatically. He kept his eyes on the shower wall. "Hollow. There's nothing but echoes inside of me now."

"Echoes of your own making, I hope." Hannibal tipped his head back gently, rinsing the suds from Will's hair. He reached for the conditioner, and Will nearly protested; he wanted to sleep so badly.

"Echoes of both of us." When Hannibal let him, Will brought his chin down again and finally made eye contact. "I feel good."

Hannibal cupped his cheek, smoothing his thumb across the bone under his eye. "You doubted me."

Will gave him a tired smile. "You're an asshole."

"But I was right," Hannibal said, pouring conditioner into his palm.

"A real asshole."

Hannibal washed his hair and his body, holding Will upright as he started to sag against him. He lingered over Will's cock, pulling soap over it to stir it back to full hardness, but went no further with it. He let Will lean on him as he washed himself, much more perfunctorily.

"Why do you even have an enema kit?" Will asked drowsily, looking down between their bodies as Hannibal washed between his own legs. Will's cock fought against his exhaustion at the sight; Hannibal was hard as well, but avoided his cock almost entirely, and angled his hips to keep it from brushing against Will at all.

"For personal use," Hannibal answered, pushing Will back just enough to rinse himself. "I use it on myself periodically."

Hannibal dried them both, leaving their clothes behind as he ushered Will back to the bedroom. Sometime between leaving Will to fill the bag and returning, or between cleaning the kit and getting into the shower, he had apparently stripped the bed they shared and changed the sheets, and Will was unspeakably grateful for the fresh sheets against his skin, free of the smell of sweat and sickness. He lay back against them heavily, feeling ready to slip away into sleep.

He was not ready for Hannibal to climb over him, straddling his thighs with the lubricant in hand. He started to protest, but Hannibal covered his mouth, shushing him.

"You need only lie back and relax."

"Relax?" Will repeated, settling his hands on Hannibal's hips.

"I'll take care of you."

Will couldn't decide if he wanted to tell Hannibal to stop or not, and so he was silent, watching him slick up his fingers and press them into himself as he tried to make up his mind. He fought with himself until Hannibal took him in hand and sank down onto his cock, a smooth but tight slide that scattered all of Will's thoughts to the wind. He pressed his fingers into Hannibal's skin, unable to stop the sounds that worked their way out of his throat as Hannibal rode him.

It was one of Will's favorite things, watching Hannibal fuck himself on his cock. There were only so many things in the world that could make Hannibal's face open up like a normal person's, his brow and the line of his lips expressing every ounce of his pleasure almost against his will. His back arched wantonly and his tongue drew over his lip when he angled his hips just right, and his hands clenched while his eyes fell shut when he got Will inside of him as deep as he liked. On his back, Will could enjoy the sight of him completely. Combined with the feel of him, hot and grasping around Will's cock, it drew him toward orgasm almost embarrassingly fast.

Hannibal didn't touch himself at all while he rode Will. Instead he stretched up, showing off his body, and then set his hands on Will's stomach again, letting his thighs do the work of getting them both off while he touched all the same places he had in the tub.

When he came, Will felt like his orgasm was being ripped out of him, taking pieces of himself along with it. Hannibal rode him through it, clenching down on him to stretch it out as long as he could. When Will began to soften, he rose up and knelt over him, finally taking himself in hand and jerking off over Will's stomach. His come fell across Will's hip and his scar, and he shuffled back and bent low to lick it up, sucking at Will's skin until he was clean of all but saliva.

Will panted helplessly, utterly exhausted. He knew he was still feverish, but he could hardly feel the prickle of it along his skin next to the feel of Hannibal's mouth on him.

When he was done, Hannibal stood, smoothing a hand down Will's abdomen in one long stroke. In the dim light, Will thought he could see his own come dripping down Hannibal's thigh.

"Stay awake just a little longer," Hannibal said, and left the room. When he returned, Will was barely awake, but he sat up obediently when Hannibal urged him to, parting his lips for the glass of water he had brought. "Drink in small sips, but as much as you need."

Will did, realizing only as he let the water onto his tongue just how thirsty he was. When he had drank his fill, his throat feeling pleasantly cool, Hannibal let him lie back again, and as soon as his hands were off his skin, Will was asleep.

* * *

Will woke feeling as though he had hardly slept at all, though the crust in his eyes said otherwise. Far from the clean, euphoric emptiness he had felt as he had fallen asleep the night before, he felt once again sweat-coated and heavy with exhaustion and ague, though at least his empty stomach had taken pity on him and made no effort to rid him of the water he had drank.

Hannibal was not in bed with him when he looked, though that was not particularly unusual. They were both early risers, but Hannibal often had him beat, and was apparently more than happy to greet Will each morning with extravagant breakfasts and expensive coffee.

Will could hardly access his sense of smell, with his head feeling as heavy as it did, but there was something in the air that he knew could only be Hannibal's doing. He struggled to stand and pull on a pair of shorts. After making his way to the bathroom to relieve himself and splash water on his face, he stumbled his way from the bedroom to the kitchen.

He found Hannibal at the stove, fully dressed and stirring something in a pot. For a moment Will thought of grits, one of the few things his father could make on his own for Will when he was sick. The idea of Hannibal making grits was almost enough to make him smile, but the swirling sensation in his stomach fought it away and made him sink heavily into a chair at the island.

Hannibal turned and smiled briefly to acknowledge him, but remained silent. For the moment Will was content to watch him, feeling as though he had to work up the will to actually eat whatever Hannibal was making.

It was a few minutes before Will thought of the time at all, and by then Hannibal was ladling the contents of the pot into a bowl. There were no ludicrous or elegant garnishes to be seen, and Will felt oddly touched that Hannibal would stoop to making something that looked _plain_ on his behalf.

"That doesn't look like a traditional breakfast," Will noted, tipping his head at the pot. "How long did I sleep?"

"Past traditional breakfast hours," Hannibal replied, "which is just as well. You need your rest, and I'd prefer it if you ate something easier to digest than spiced meats or pastries."

"What is it, then?"

" _Consome de pollo_. At least if you aren't able to keep this down, retroperistalsis will be somewhat less unpleasant," Hannibal said, passing Will the bowl. The liquid inside was mostly clear, with small pieces of meat.

"Chicken soup." Will lifted a spoonful of the broth for closer inspection. "The last time you made me chicken soup, you were fostering the swelling in my brain."

"There's no swelling to foster this time."

"You've made me soup to make me sicker and soup to make me taste better. Last night I threw up the soup you made me."

Hannibal made a face at him — a lack of expression that told Will more than most of his actual expressions might have. "I don't believe the goulash was responsible for your illness."

"All I'm saying," Will said, "is that if this doesn't make me feel better, I'm swearing off your soups for good." With that, he raised the spoon to his mouth, keeping eye contact with Hannibal as he took his first taste.

It was good. Of course it was. It had a clean, uncomplicated taste that warmed Will instantly, thin but substantial. On the next spoonful, he took a chunk of meat, chewing it thoroughly.

"Liver?" he asked.

"Yes."

" _Chicken_ liver?"

Hannibal didn't look at him as he poured a second bowl. "Yes."

"No other sources?"

Hannibal sat across from him. "None whatsoever."

Will was content to eat in silence then, or content enough. His mind felt fogged from fever, and the few thoughts that did catch and hold on him were ones he wanted to avoid for the time being. He didn't feel ready yet to confront how he felt about the night before. He was hungry besides, and the soup was easy to focus on: simple, unmoving, and not particularly likely to manipulate him into anything. Not directly, at least.

When his bowl was empty, he sat watching Hannibal as he finished his own meal and moved around the kitchen. Watching was easy.

"How are you feeling?" Hannibal asked, once he had cleaned away their dishes and set a glass of water before Will. He put his hand against Will's forehead, stroking up into his hair.

"Like I'm on fire," Will said, unable to help the tremor in his voice. "Worse than last night. It feels like there's a brick in my skull."

Hannibal kept running his fingers through Will's hair in a gentle massage. Will leaned into it, and felt the fog clear some. "No other symptoms?"

"I'm not hallucinating. Not yet, anyway."

Hannibal's hand stopped its movements across his scalp for a moment, and then his fingers gripped Will's hair, tilting his head to the side. Will felt Hannibal's breath puff out warmly over the skin behind his ear as he bent low. His inhale was long and deep, and as Hannibal drew back his nose brushed the shell of Will's ear.

Will twisted in his seat to look up at him. He felt abruptly jittery and anxious.

"It's not encephalitis, Will."

Will stamped down reflexive protests — that even the sharpest nose wasn't as good as medical testing, that it might be too early to detect, that it might smell different this time — and nodded. "What do I smell like?"

"Fever. Regular fever." Hannibal's hand resumed its stroking through his hair. "Soap and sweat. The _consome de pollo_. Semen, from last night."

Will let his eyes fall shut. "Yours?"

"Mine," Hannibal confirmed, his voice warm and possessive. "I'll do what it takes to ensure your health."

"You could start by giving me something for this headache," Will suggested. "Aspirin, maybe."

"I've seen the way you use aspirin." Hannibal's hand slipped out of his hair to pull Will's seat away from the table. "I can think of other ways to help you."

* * *

Will eyed the case Hannibal set on bed suspiciously. It was dark and plain; it might have passed for a medical kit. "I thought that had one of your plastic suits in it. Maybe some... knives."

"Not this one, no," Hannibal said, opening it. Inside, there were several smaller cases, many of them leather. Hannibal picked one out without hesitation, setting the rest on the floor at the side of the bed.

Will was sitting against the headboard, his back propped up by pillows. He hadn't taken off his shorts, unwilling to cede that ground just yet; Hannibal had only removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, which felt like a statement of some kind. Will wasn't sure he wanted to think about it just yet.

Hannibal came to sit near his feet, setting the case on the bed between them. He opened it as though showing it off, though Will wasn't sure, at first, what he was seeing.

Inside a velvet lining sat eight straight steel rods, each about six inches long and each thicker than the last. The largest one looked nearly as broad as Will's little finger. He could guess what they were for, and was thankful when Hannibal removed the smallest one and closed the case back up.

"What else do you have in there?" Will asked, hoping it sounded like an eager suggestion.

"Another day, I'll let you look," Hannibal said, and moved toward the bathroom. "Let me sterilize this, and I'll be right back."

Will let his head fall back against the pillows. If he had been in a better state, he knew he would have refused, would have gotten up and left the room if that was what it took. With his aching head, though, and the way his insides couldn't seem to settle comfortably, he couldn't bring himself to.

The enema had turned out okay, in the end. Humiliating, yes, but he had felt better after, and if nothing else it was a distraction. The orgasm after had been more than pleasant, too. He thought, if he was lucky, he might fuck and sleep his way through his fever. The periods of discomfort might be worth it.

Hannibal returned, the steel rod held carefully in his hand, and pulled the lubricant out from his bedside table before climbing up on the bed and kneeling next to Will. He set both items down next to him and pulled Will's shorts to his thighs. His hand was warm on Will's cock, and he knew what Will liked in a handjob; it didn't take him long to get Will hard, aroused enough to roll his hips up into Hannibal's grip.

"What do you know about sounding?" Hannibal asked, as conversationally as he asked just about anything.

"Enough," Will said. "Couldn't we just keep doing this?"

"It would be a poor and short distraction." Hannibal let him go, and picked the lubricant and sound back up. As he coated the steel until it was dripping, he said, "You may enjoy it. I have a variety of sounds besides these. With the glass, I would be able to see inside you, just a little."

Will felt something flex in his pelvic floor at the suggestion, like his body was trying to reinforce its defenses against all intrusions. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

"I wouldn't dream of it." He took Will's cock in hand again, smoothing the excess lubrication over it quickly before setting the end of the sound against his slit. "Breathe."

Will took a deep, shuddering breath, and as he let it out Hannibal pushed in. It was instantly on the brink of overwhelming, a complicated tangle of feeling that was not quite pleasure and not quite pain, but ready to tip in either direction at any moment. Will fought to keep still, suppressing the urge to kick out or jerk away. Hannibal held his cock delicately, stroking his thumb up and down the underside as he slowly, slowly pushed the sound deeper into Will's urethra.

Will watched in something like awe, dull horror mixed with fascination, as the metal gradually disappeared into his cock. He knew, he could _see_ that it wasn't in far, but it felt deep and probing. The sensation was almost like burning, but not hot or painful exactly.

"You're taking advantage of my fever," Will said, and then grunted at the confused sensations in his groin.

"Can you blame me?" Hannibal asked, and before Will could answer with a _yes_ , he went on: "You're so pliable like this. Normally you balk at the prospect of doing anything you perceive to be submissive, and you're completely averse to any form of penetration."

Will swallowed. He didn't have the breath to respond to that, but it didn't matter; it was true. It had taken him months to work up to taking Hannibal's cock into his mouth, and even after that he had steadfastly refused any other method of letting Hannibal get inside him.

Physically, anyway.

Technically, the sound wasn't a part of Hannibal, but there was no doubt that it was Hannibal doing the penetrating, and it was intensely, intimately invasive.

An inch or so in, Hannibal stopped. He stroked up and down Will's cock once, and then began to draw the sound back out.

Will couldn't stop the noise that escaped him. It sounded like a whine, embarrassingly high-pitched and thready. It wasn't loud, but he knew Hannibal heard it. He turned his face away.

Hannibal took that as his cue to reverse the sound's path again, pushing it in deeper, a little quicker than before.

"I don't know how much of this I can take," Will said, ashamed of how hoarse and weak his voice was.

Hannibal stopped, began drawing the sound out again. "You didn't know how much water you could take, either. Breathe."

Will gulped for air, and Hannibal paused until he was breathing properly again, his mouth hanging open. "This is different."

"You're taking it just as well," Hannibal said. "Look."

Will did, and groaned as Hannibal pulled the sound nearly all the way out before sliding it smoothly back in, steadily deeper until it was at nearly half buried in him. "Oh god."

"You are capable of so much more than you think, Will. You doubt yourself, and yet here you are, magnificent in your tormented rapture."

"This isn't rapture," Will bit out. He could feel his thighs shaking. "I don't know what this is, but it's not that good."

"Isn't it?"

Will shook his head, just slightly. He wasn't sure he hated it, wasn't sure how he would feel about it after it was over, but he hardly felt ecstatic. He felt hot, like he might shake out of his skin, and only Hannibal's voice, his hand on his cock, was steadying him.

Hannibal watched him closely, eyes trained on Will's, as he drew the sound out, going slow once more. This time, he pulled it all the way out, and before Will knew what was happening Hannibal's mouth was on him. He took him down until he hit the back of his throat, then drew up to suck hard at the head. Will's hands flew to Hannibal's hair, clutching to keep himself steady more than to keep Hannibal's head down.

It was unexpectedly intense, like he could feel through every tissue in his cock to the sensitized inside of his urethra. The suction from Hannibal's mouth even seemed to pull at the flesh just inside his slit, and then he was tonguing it, and even that felt strangely, wonderfully internal.

Hannibal pulled off, reinserting the sound before Will had much of a chance to brace himself. He didn't go quite as deep, but he went fast, and then pulled it out again, putting his mouth right back on Will's cock.

It didn't take much more after that for Will to reach his tipping point: a few more hard sucks to the tip of his cock and he came like the snapping of a rubber band. Hannibal drank him down eagerly, but let him go swiftly. It was even more hollowing than the night before, and Will spared a moment as he struggled for air to wistfully remember simpler orgasms, ones that didn't have to be forced from his body.

All the same, he wasn't entirely sure he was sorry for it. He felt _good_. the heat of his fever was somewhere in the background of his awareness, and his headache was gone.

He meant to thank Hannibal, to offer him a hand, but he was already slipping into sleep again, barely aware of lips brushing against his temple.

* * *

The light through the window told Will the sun wasn't yet setting, but was on its way there. He had slept for hours — not uninterrupted, but not fitfully, either. Hannibal had woke him a handful of times, bringing him water and, once, a small mug of soup, and he'd risen on his own once or twice to use the bathroom and brush the cottony feeling out of his mouth.

He sat up, taking stock of himself. The pillows stank of sweat, but he felt no touch of fever. He was more or less free of aches, and even his cock felt surprisingly fine, if still a little sensitive — though that might have been his imagination. He still couldn't get the thought of metal pushing down his cock out of his mind.

There was a full glass of water by the bed, and he drank it in one long pull. He didn't stumble as he stood, and though he didn't quite feel _refreshed_ , he felt stable and unshaken.

He found Hannibal in his study, drawing at his desk. He smiled as he looked up at Will, faltering only briefly when he realized Will was still entirely naked.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, dragging his eyes up Will's body before fixing them on his face. "Better, I hope?"

"Better," Will agreed, crossing over to him. He put his hand on Hannibal's shoulder as he walked around him, leaning over to look at his drawing. "I should have known you'd be drawing me."

"I have few more pleasing subjects." Hannibal moved his pencil away so that Will could see.

Will recognize the inspiration as _The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa_ , but the result was infinitely more obscene. His face was contorted in what he imagined must be his own expression at orgasm, and his cock was exposed through the folds of cloth, hard and dripping. The rest of it still only outlined, and he wondered if Hannibal would put himself in the place of the angel, if a knife might replace the spear.

"Your ecstasy is far more exquisite than any saint's," Hannibal said, and Will huffed out a laugh.

"You're such a pretentious ass," he said. "It's beautiful, though."

Hannibal turned his smile on him, utterly adoring. "You are."

**Author's Note:**

> Although Will is conscious and mostly unimpaired, he does make decisions regarding sex here while under the influence of a fever that has some impact on his thought process, and Hannibal is deliberately manipulating that.
> 
> Also don't actually brush your teeth immediately after vomiting. It can be harmful to your teeth! Will just insists on it, because, let's be honest, your mouth is gonna feel gross after.


End file.
